


Blanketed

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is almost asleep – it's pack night at Derek's loft, and he's scored the coveted left corner of the couch – when someone throws a blanket over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blanketed

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to dogeared for beta!

Stiles is almost asleep – it's pack night at Derek's loft, and he's scored the coveted left corner of the couch – when someone throws a blanket over him. He turns his head, sees Derek settle back down at the other end of the couch, arms folded across his body in a familiar attitude of keep-away. 

"Thanks, man," Stiles mumbles.

"Shh," Derek says, staring at the TV.

Derek needs lessons on basic human interaction, but Stiles will tackle that later, right after he's napped under this big, soft blanket, just as soon as he drifts off to the white noise of Scott and Lydia squabbling.

\-----

"You're soaked through," says Derek, looking Stiles over, head to toe, with a strange expression on his face. Stiles can't tell if he's angry or worried or maybe just ate some bad tuna.

"It's raining," he says simply, and Derek growls a little, pulls him into the loft and shuts the door behind him. 

"Sit," Derek says, and crosses the loft to his bed. He opens his trunk and pulls out a soft-looking henley, opens a drawer and pulls out grey pajama pants. Stiles perches on the edge of Derek's couch and tries, unsuccessfully, not to shiver.

"Put these on," Derek says, holding out the clothes, and Stiles takes them automatically.

"Um," he says.

Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles feels himself flush under the scrutiny.

"Could you . . . " He makes a little turning motion with his forefinger, and swears Derek looks amused for half a second before he turns around with a huff and heads to the kitchen. Stiles doesn't wait for another opening – shucks out of his sodden jeans and underwear, pulls on the PJ pants; strips off all three of his shirts and wriggles into the henley. 

"Tea," Derek says, and by rights that ought to be a question, but Derek's apparently brooking no refusal.

"Sure," says Stiles, nudging his clothes around the side of the couch with one foot, sitting back down as Derek brings a steaming mug of tea toward him and sets it down on the coffee table.

"Want to tell me why you were out in this storm?" Derek asks, and he pulls a blanket from the back of the couch, arranges it around Stiles' shoulders. The blanket's soft and comforting and Stiles makes a pleased, involuntary sound. "Uh – " He reaches for the tea. "Found the source of the spell. Came to tell you about it, and I couldn't just sit in the jeep forever."

"Yes, you could," says Derek, sitting down beside him, "if it meant staying dry."

Stiles feels something warm spread in the pit of his stomach, and he sips the tea to cover his confusion. It tastes of peppermint, bright and fresh against his tongue. "Yeah, okay."

Derek says nothing for a long moment, and Stiles tries to pretend he's not being stared at. "So tell me about the spell," Derek says at last, and Stiles puts down his cup, pulls his feet up under him, hugs the blanket closer and starts to talk. 

\-----

"Oh, this is bad, this is very, very bad," says Stiles, hands hovering over Derek's bloodied torso. "I think I see bone."

Derek blows out an unsteady breath, settling carefully into what Stiles hopes is a more comfortable position on the couch. "You do not."

"Dude, now is not the time for heroics," Stiles says, panicked. "You're not healing. There's . . . blood ." It's a ridiculous thing to say, as if Derek might not have noticed the gashes down his side, but Stiles thinks talking is better than processing the prickling behind his eyes, and he swallows hard. "I should call Deaton."

Derek grabs his wrist, holds him implacably. "No."

"Derek – "

"It just takes time." His skin is pale and he's sweating and Stiles can't think of a single useful thing to do, so he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and covers Derek with it. 

"I'll get the blood out later," he says. "Become an expert on that, actually – denim, cotton, flannel, you name it, I've worked out how to get it clean." His voice is unsteady and he wants to touch Derek so badly, just to reassure himself of something he can't begin to name. "Mrs. McCall uses a Tide stick, but I prefer – "

"Stiles," says Derek.

"Yeah?" says Stiles, all attention, ready to do whatever Derek needs.

"I'll be fine."

"Of course you will," says Stiles, and gives in to the urge to touch, cups Derek's cheek in his hand, resolutely does not make a sound when Derek turns his face into Stiles' palm. "I'll just stay here and make sure, okay?"

"Okay," Derek says, blinking slowly.

"Okay," Stiles says, and watches Derek fall asleep.

\-----

"It is fucking freezing in here," Stiles says, because stating the obvious is one of his life's works. 

"It's freezing everywhere," Derek says, reasonably, but he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and looks at Stiles expectantly.

"What?"

"You're going to need to be closer if this is going to work," says Derek.

"This?" Stiles asks, mouth a little dry.

"The blanket," Derek says, shaking it out.

Stiles hesitates for one three-hundredth of a second before he moves in close, his side pushed right up against Derek's arm. Derek lifts his arm up and away – the disappointment is _cutting_ – and arranges the blanket over them both. When he's done he lets his arm fall . . . right around Stiles' shoulders.

Stiles freezes and turns his head to look at Derek's hand where it rests against the henley Stiles had never given back. "Um."

"Shut up," says Derek, sounding as prickly and gruff as usual, because why would having his arm around Stiles change his fundamental personality?

"Okay, but see – "

"Stiles."

Stiles turns his head to look Derek in the face, sees Derek's gaze flicker down to his mouth and back up again.

"Oh," Stiles says stupidly.

"Yeah," Derek says, and he leans in, presses his lips to Stiles' in a slow, soft kiss.

Stiles' thoughts grow fuzzy, and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest, and he chases Derek's mouth when Derek pulls away, pulls him closer with his fingers fisted in Derek's shirt and kisses him and _means_ it, and Derek's lips part on a hitch of breath. "Why," says Stiles, "haven't we been doing this all along?"

"We can talk about that," Derek says, "or – "

"Or, or, definitely or," Stiles says, and kisses Derek again, groaning softly at the touch of Derek's tongue, mumbling happily in agreement when Derek's hand slips under his shirt and presses against the skin of his back.

\-----

"Fuck, Stiles . . . " Derek's head is tipped back against the couch and Stiles watches him wet his lips, his breathing ragged. He's older; has the crows feet and the gray at his temples to prove it, but he's still the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen. Stiles rocks his hips forward, shivers when Derek thrusts up, buried deep inside him; he can barely stand how full he feels, how everything's been reduced to Derek's touch, Derek's scent, the scratch of Derek's thighs against his own where Stiles is straddling him. Stiles moves a hand from the back of the couch and leans back just enough to close his fingers around his own cock, moans at the different angle, at the way that he see stars when Derek thrusts up again. "Close," Stiles manages, and he twists his hand, his palm slick with pre-come. Derek's gasp is strangled, broken, and he digs his fingers into Stiles' hips, speeds up the rhythm of his thrusts.

It feels like they hover there forever, bodies moving with practiced ease over and beneath each other, throwing off sparks as they shift. Derek's hips stutter and hitch, and he wraps his arms around Stiles' back as he thrusts again, once, twice, and comes with his face pressed against Stiles' shoulder, making soft, pained sounds. When he collapses back against the sofa, it's the look on his face that speeds up Stiles' hand – the blissed-out expression, the flush of his cheeks, the way his eyes are half-lidded, the curve of his smile. Stiles rocks into his hand and gasps as he comes all over Derek's stomach. He works himself until he's too sensitized to touch himself a second more, slumps forward and lets Derek catch him.

When he returns to his senses, it's with Derek nosing below his ear, kissing the hinge of his jaw. "Shit," Stiles says fervently, and pulls back just enough to smile the way he wants to, uninhibited, full of glee. "You broke me." He presses himself up onto his knees, wrinkles his nose as Derek slips free, and then they're falling onto their sides, rearranging themselves until they're tangled up together the full length of the couch.

Derek strokes a hand down Stiles' spine and gooseflesh flares up in the wake of his touch. "Hmmm," he says, a non-committal sound, and he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch, shakes it out to cover them both.

"We're a mess," Stiles whispers, head resting on Derek's shoulder, knee pressed between Derek's thighs.

Derek grumbles softly, swipes at them both with the blanket, which makes Stiles laugh. "I'm not doing the laundry on that one, you can get that stain out yours – "

Derek's kisses are worth shutting up for, especially mere moments after sex when their bodies are cooling and they press together drowsily, especially when they're touching each other, gentling each other toward sleep. "I love you," Stiles says when they break apart, fingers pushing through Derek's hair.

"I love you, too," Derek says, and no matter the years between them, it still gives Stiles a jolt to hear the words said, makes him smile and burrow in closer. 

The blanket is threadbare and soft.


End file.
